


As the Crow Flies

by thestarryknight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus Draco Malfoy, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Full Moon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Werewolf Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 11:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29749569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarryknight/pseuds/thestarryknight
Summary: After years of living with Harry's condition, they have found many ways to manage Harry's monthly transformations.  Draco's crow Animagus is useful for flying along through the woods to keep the wolf out of trouble. Draco has also gotten quite good at the aftermath: a warm fire, a good cup of tea, and of course, a steaming bath for two.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 24
Kudos: 103





	As the Crow Flies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hogwartsfirebolt (lostgansey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostgansey/gifts).



> First of all - thank you to HogwartsFirebolt for the prompt! This idea has been percolating, and your prompt was the spark to set it in motion.
> 
> Secondly, crows have been on my mind thanks to the lovely [cambiodipolvere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cambiodipolvere/pseuds/cambiodipolvere) and I highly suggest checking out some of his work!
> 
>  **Warnings for on-screen minor injury & blood, and mention of a dead animal.** This is not gore and have taken great effort to keep these descriptions to a minimum, but please proceed with caution, and see the end notes for a detailed summary of these warnings. Also, feel free to [message me on tumblr](https://the-starryknight.tumblr.com/ask) for more detail as well.

Under the wide and inauspicious full moon, the little crow landed primly on an arching branch. Beneath his watchful black eye, the wolf slept, spent from a night running back and forth across the wintry earth. Gently, as though landing on the shell of an egg, the crow floated down from his branch to the ground beside the wolf’s brown snout. His soft breath fluttered across the crow’s feathers. Draco settled, tucking his wings around him, and all was still.

The moon had sunk low in the sky, half-hidden by the horizon by the time the wolf stirred again. He shifted from his curled position, disturbing the crow, and stretched each paw forward, one at a time. Then he turned, catching the face of the moon in its slow sinking dismissal, and crooned at it, begging her to stay longer. But no cry could stop the moon from setting, just as no man could turn back the clock and remove the wolf from his position itching beneath Harry’s skin.

Draco waited, beady eyes on the stirring wolf as he bayed once more and turned, preparing to dash back into the woods. At the smallest flutter of air, the wolf turned back to the crow, green eyes catching the iridescent undersides of Draco’s wings. He bared his teeth, eyeing the crow, sniffing the air, scenting out if the crow was friend or foe. Draco hovered carefully, waiting, watching. The wolf -- Harry -- decided Draco was not a threat and instead snapped his jaws almost like a laugh and burst into a run.

This was what Draco loved the most about these nights. Harry running as fast as his galloping legs could carry him, lost in that animalistic sense of the physical, where trees were fluid and the leaves underfoot crunched easily and messily.

There were some nights when Draco flew until he thought his wings might fall off, just as tired as Harry. In the wee hours of this morning, Harry was playful, dashing back and forth through the trees with an almost dog-like sensibility, stopping to snuffle at an odd copse of moss. He bounded to a halt in a wide clearing so that he could run around the edges until Draco felt dizzy just watching him.

Exhausted from the night without rest, Draco hovered in mid-air at the center of the clearing, watching Harry snuffle through the leaves, tossing dirt into the air. The wolf, only released under the moon’s watchful gaze, might be the only time that Harry was ever truly free.

It was an awful catch-22, to hate the wolf and love it, and Draco knew that Harry would never hear his love for this version of him. But the wolf had no responsibilities. He could cry to the moon and kick through leaves and run until every tendon and muscle ached with the strain.

Harry howled, jaw wide and dripping, revealing the violent incisors inside, a reminder that he was _not_ a dog, playful as he could be. Draco gave him an extra bit of berth, landing neatly on a low-hanging branch, claws curling into the moss growth. There were some nights when Harry would play with him, jumping up to snap his jaws centimeters from Draco’s wing. Draco had seen Harry hunt enough to know that if he wanted to hurt Draco, he could, so the near-misses in these games were no accident.

Harry didn’t like to speak about the wolf, but Draco ached to know what it was like in his mind. Did he know Draco as deeply as Draco knew him, even in the corvid-brain of his crow Animagus? Could he recognize him, if not as a friend, as one that he could trust? Distracted by his own tired musings, Draco looked about the little clearing for Harry, but could not see him-- there was no sign of the thick brown fur anywhere.

Draco leapt off the branch and into flight, spreading his wings with an exhausted ache, and caught a little gust of wind, listening for the sounds of breaking branches. Harry could have run off in any direction. He could be hunting. He could be hurt. He could be turning back alone -- the moon was still there, still pulling him to his wolfish form, but she was sinking quickly and morning would arrive soon, golden and relieving.

He picked one direction at random and flew towards it with every ounce of remaining energy. The _snap-snap_ of a stick far off to the left had him wheeling around, one eye searching in the dim light. Panic thrilled through him, ruffling up under his feathers and amid his thin bones. He felt weighed by it and found himself drifting even lower to the ground in slower flight as he searched the underbrush for any sign of the little wolf.

The noise of a mournful howl gave Harry away. Draco flew as fast as he could and paused when he came upon the scene. The wolf had found some small prey and was greedily licking his chops, blood spattered over his jaw and front paws. Draco hovered in the air, far out of reach for even a jumping wolf, and watched with sad eyes.

This would be a difficult morning for Harry when he shed the wolf’s skin.

For now, though, he was too pleased with himself, sitting primly and looking up at the crow as though he expected to receive some sort of commendation. Draco, easily swayed by those green eyes in whatever form, flitted down closer. It was risky, but it was always risky with Harry like this. The wolf seemed peaceful, satiated on whatever it was it had eaten. Draco hovered lower, and still the wolf remained calm.

And so he did what he could so rarely do. Draco landed carefully, neatly, on the wolf’s shoulder haunch, minding the edges of his claws so that he would not hurt Harry. For a brief, tense moment, the wolf seemed confused, looking around for where his crow friend had gone, but he settled, sinking down into the dirt, Draco perched atop.

It couldn’t last, though. In the last moments of moonlight, something crashed far off in the woods. Distantly, Draco knew that it was but the noise of some other animal moving, or the natural rhythms of rocks and stones and tree branches in the woods. But the wolf, he was afraid, and that fear compelled him with something instinctual, something primal. Harry jumped from his peaceful curl, his tail, which had flicked up close to Draco’s own tail feathers sweetly, like a caress, leapt to earnest and terrifying attention.

Harry’s eyes, so beautifully green, were on him, keen hunger in his eyes. Draco had but a second’s headstart and he took it, flicking off through the trees towards the noise as Harry began to chase him. If it had been the late afternoon, when the moon had just begun to rise in the still-blue sky and Harry had just turned, Draco could have easily outflown him. Even if it had been the early evening, when the stars were just beginning to wink and the Muggle satellites above were beginning their midnight traversals, he could have spotted a good branch and gotten out of the way, watching Harry scrabble ineffectively at the base of the tree.

But Harry had been particularly restless for the better part of tonight, and the early winter sunset had meant that they had been running since yesterday’s dinnertime, with only an hour or two’s respite of sleep. Weariness was in every frail bone of Draco’s tiny body, that exhaustion that was greater than the physical, but still he flew onward, Harry right at his tail.

They came upon an unfortunate copse of trees, too tightly woven together for Draco to dodge between them easily. He could only go up, his tired wings arching to pull himself along the face of the bark. But Harry was faster and Draco’s hesitation at which direction to move in had cost him those precious seconds of head start. Harry’s claw snapped into Draco’s left wing and he nearly fell, swinging wildly into the bark of the tree and grabbing at it with his talons.

There was no time to assess the severity of the injury. Harry continued to claw at the base of the tree, scrambling to reach Draco, no semblance of humanity in his shining green eyes, only the Hunt, fueled by fear and bitter cruelty. Biting back the _need_ to transform back into his human form, Draco clawed weakly, flapping his right wing for balance as he worked his way to a branch. It was too low for his liking but high enough that it would be difficult for Harry to reach without significant purchase on the bark.

For the first time in the night, Draco felt the cold. The cool winter air, the icy dew clinging to the tips of the branches, the crunching chill of the leaves underfoot were overwhelming all of a sudden and he drew his good wing in close. Harry paced below, his jaws still red from the blood of his earlier prey, glaring at Draco with a harshness that would never leave Draco’s memory, along with a thousand other wolfish glares of a thousand other nights. This was his penance.

The wolf howled one last, bitter, mournful noise, and sat down at the base of the tree, eyes not leaving Draco. The last sliver of the moon was peeking over the horizon, and the sky was cast in bright yellow shades. Harry would be Harry again at any moment.

In the brief minutes while the wolf waited, licking his lips at Draco above, Draco stretched out his left wing, wincing at the lancing pain that shot through him as he did so. It was not as bad as he had first thought, though he worried absently if it would prevent him from changing. He had suffered worse injuries and managed fine, especially in those first few months when he was still brand new to the bird Animagus and not yet used to running with Harry. Harry hadn’t caught him off guard like this in over a year.

He heard the noise of Harry’s agony before he saw it. It was his cue. Draco dropped down from the branch, turning human again as he jumped with an aching twist in his left arm. He landed messily on his feet.

Harry was curled into a fetal position, wolfish arms and legs twisted in wrong directions, his eyes wheeling as he did so. Draco was safe from him now, and he reached for Harry, running a hand over his sweat and blood-stained brow. Harry moaned, back arching as his vertebrae re-knit themselves into a human shape.

While an Animagus turn was fluid, a smooth and meditative connection between _human_ and _creature_ , the wolf always fought Harry as though it thought that it could win out and remain eternally. It was like watching the two parts of Harry -- the man and the wolf -- entangled in a gruesome bitter fight, twisting across the ground in a fit of horrors. It was never easy to watch, even after years and years of sitting beside him as Harry’s body arched and contorted.

The stillness in the moment after the transformation was complete was always uncanny. It always seemed like that Harry could not possibly be done after twisting and curling in on himself for so long, but there he was, all man, the last vestiges of fur and claw and tooth gone, just miles of warm brown skin. He was curled back into a fetal position, knees drawn up under his chin. He looked almost childlike, naked and marked with dirt and blood.

Draco reached for him with his good arm, refusing to look at the damage on his left, visible with the thin white tank top he wore. He gathered Harry close and touched the little portkey necklace Draco wore around his neck on a thin gold chain. The forest disappeared in a swirl of green and brown and haziness, Harry limp in Draco’s arms.

They landed messily in the living room and Draco tugged the portkey necklace off, tossing it aside. As weary as he was, there were several things that needed to happen as Harry slowly awoke. He reached for his wand, which was laid out on the coffee table beside Harry’s, and cast to move him onto the wide couch. It was already made up with clean sheets to protect the leather from whatever dirt Harry had picked up in the night.

Harry was still asleep, face contorted and unhappy but mostly unharmed where he lay against the couch cushions. Draco walked to the kitchen in a tired daze, still feeling uncertain in the fullness of his human form. He took up more space like this. His elbows were too wide and his legs too long, and his center of gravity felt too high or too low or somewhere wrong all together. There was no gentle hovering in midair in a human body, just the weightedness of gravity making each step feel leaden.

He set the tea kettle to boil. Draco reached into the kitchen cabinet with his right hand, pulling out a box of crackers -- the salted kind that Harry liked best -- and tossed them onto the counter. There was a bit of meat in the fridge, cooked yesterday at lunchtime with some to spare. He pulled that out too, and the little block of cheddar cheese that they had been working through for the past week. And the creamer, of course. Harry liked his tea white, no sugar, the heathen.

Draco raised his wand to bring the food into the living room, letting it hover behind him and settled out as a spread on the coffee table. Harry still didn’t stir, but that was probably for the best. The water was still working its way to a boil, so Draco went into the little bathroom. Their suite upstairs had the proper bath and all the fixings, but this was where they kept most of the first aid goods. It had only taken a month or two to realize that digging for it or needing to summon was never wise.

There was no mirror in this bathroom. Draco had removed it after he had found Harry staring at his reflection after a moon, eyes fixed on a blood smear across his chin that neither of them could place. There was just a small medicine cabinet and a little sink and a guest shower and a water closet and that was that. Draco turned on the tap, letting the water trickle out and heat up as he steeled himself to look at the damage.

It was not as bad as it could have been, though the sight of blood still made him feel queasy. Draco leaned his hips against the sink basin for stability, the cool of it pressing through his thin shorts and offering some respite. There were three small scratches, just below the crease of his elbow and above the marr of his dark mark, deep and awful.

Draco pulled the dittany out of the little first aid kit, opening it with his teeth, and dripped it over the wounds. He bit his lip at the sting of it as it burned across the wounds and looked away, repulsed by the sight of the blood on his hand. When the potion had done its work as well as it could, he took a wet flannel, dunking it in the warm water, and cleaned the rest of his arm carefully. He placed a thick gauze over the scratches, which were still weeping slightly, and bound it all up with a thick white bandage.

The bathroom was returned to its normal clean state with a speedy _Scourgify_ and Draco shut the door behind him. On the counter, the kettle had boiled. He poured the water over the tea bags in two mugs, watching the steam curl lazily up as the scent of Earl Grey filled the kitchen. He let himself soak it in for a long moment, blinking in the fresh scent of bergamot and black tea, a little reminder of what it meant to be human.

A soft shuffle from the couch had him back on his toes, yawning as he added a hearty dollop of cream to Harry’s mug and a dash of sugar to his own. He took one in each hand and walked back to the living room. Harry was stirring, half awake and half asleep, face still awkwardly pressed up against the couch. Draco put both mugs on the little ceramic coasters on the coffee table and just breathed for a moment.

Though his arm had been the most glaring problem, exhaustion sang across every inch of his skin, each tendon stretched and worn ragged by the night’s sleepless flights. His arms felt as though he had done a thousand push-ups for the duration of the night. He still found it difficult to look straight on, as he always did after a night of staring out of one eye at a time. Tiredness made him want to stay kneeling on the floor beside the couch, but there was still yet more to do.

Draco pulled the thick jumper he had laid out for himself before they left for the night yesterday, tugging it over the sweaty tank top. He pulled off his stained shorts and stepped into a clean pair of sweats, relishing in the feeling of soft flannel against his skin, yet another reminder of his simple humanity.

Last but not least, he walked over to the little hearth, and cast to light it up. It was a luxury they rarely put on when not using the Floo but it was a special treat to wake up curled beside the warm fire. This was how every moon went, nowadays. Already beginning to drift to a peaceful exhaustion at the warmth of the flickering flames, Draco lifted his wand one final time and levitated Harry and his pillows over to his side, until the length of him was laid out before the fire.

Harry stirred only enough to blink sleepily at Draco and smile and Draco returned it, even though Harry had already curled back into the pillow, knees and nose drawn to the warmth of the hearth. Surveying the gathered food and tea, Draco cast a little stasis charm and set his wand aside, not bothering to watch it roll across the wide knit carpet. It was wise to have it all on hand in case either of them woke up hungry, though Draco worried for Harry’s stomach after his nighttime prey.

He curled in behind Harry, wrapping his left arm around his middle and drawing him in close enough that he could feel his own heartbeat against Harry’s back. Harry said something under his breath, sleep-ridden, too garbled to understand. Draco didn’t need to understand. He pressed a kiss, gentle and cautious, to the back of Harry’s neck and closed his eyes.

* * *

When he woke again, the sun was high, filtering through the gauzy curtains and filling the room with golden light. The fire had mostly gone out, leaving just a few flickering orange embers turning about at the base of the grate. Harry was awake. Draco didn’t need to open his eyes to know it, as he could hear the fast cadence of Harry’s breathing. Draco curled closer anyway, pressing his knees to the backs of Harry’s knees, drawing his arm tighter around Harry even as the scratches across his arm twinged in distaste.

Harry took his hand, pulled it close to his chest. Draco could feel Harry’s pulse under his fingertips, wheeling and wild.

He thought, for a brief moment, about how easy they were together like this, in the quiet moments when they weren’t bickering or snapping at each other. It didn’t matter much anyway, because the bickering was never intended to hurt, not anymore. It had seemed so obvious when they had finally admitted it to themselves and then out loud. They had gone toe to toe for every moment of their lives and here they still were: perfect foils, one of the earth and one of the sky, both bound by the will of the moon.

Here, fingers against Harry’s beating heart and lips against his neck, Draco could see the most direct path between them had always been the one already underfoot.

“The sun’s awake,” he whispered, lips tickling over the fine brown hairs. Harry snorted, and Draco could picture the precise eye-rolling expression he would make.

But all was not peaceful. The back of Harry’s neck had a new sheen of sweat to it and he was shaking slightly, curled in around his stomach. Draco ran the tip of his nose over the back of his neck, rubbing his forehead against Harry’s loose curls. There was still dirt tangled there, a little twig sticking awkwardly up, but Draco didn’t mind. Dirt could be washed away.

“What did I _eat_?” Harry croaked. His voice sounded like it was fighting its way out of his throat. Draco shifted closer -- if that was even possible -- pressing his toes to the backs of Harry’s calves.

“I’m not certain,” he whispered, “I- you got away from me.”

“Fuck,” Harry groaned. He turned his face into the pillow on the rug, pressing his forehead into it. “You’re supposed to distract me. Why didn’t you distract me?”

Draco was silent. Why _hadn’t_ he distracted Harry? What could have been more important than his one task?

Harry pulled himself off of the rug, glaring at the fading embers in the hearth. He was holding himself awkwardly on one hand, wrist digging into the knit rug, exhaustion weighing across his bare shoulders. Draco had draped a blanket over them both, covering their lower halves, but Harry didn’t seem to notice as it slid down to the tops of his thighs.

“Was it bad?” Harry asked, back still to Draco.

Heart in his throat, Draco reached for him, rolling gentling hands across Harry’s shoulders. Harry didn’t respond. Draco trailed one finger down along the tense muscles in Harry’s bicep, tracing the flex, the pull of muscle beneath skin.

The wolf had only made Harry stronger and this fact was especially obvious in the days after the moon. Though Draco could never tell Harry, he found the extra power beneath Harry’s skin intoxicating, the feeling of Harry’s hands just on this side of too-strong on his wrists, grabbing his hips with a strength Harry didn’t realize he had. Draco rested the palm of his hand gently on the sharp cut of Harry’s hip.

“ _And he is soft as any dove_ ,” Draco said instead of answering, sliding his chin onto Harry’s shoulder. He danced fingers down Harry’s side and Harry shivered. “ _And brown and curly is his hair._ ”

“Always the poet,” Harry muttered. “I mean it,” he whispered, though he pushed back against Draco, leaning into the embrace. “It was bad, wasn’t it?” He pulled out of Draco’s hands, looking at him fully for the first time since he had woken. “ _I_ was bad.”

“No, never.” Draco crossed his legs, stretching his back out, trying to effect calm for Harry. “You ran around for most of the night,” he shrugged, running a hand through his unstyled hair. “Slept for a bit, ran a bit more.”

“Hunted,” Harry cut in. “I hunted something. I can feel it,” he gestured to his stomach. “It’s fucking awful. How could you let me hurt some poor creature?”

“I don’t know what it was,” Draco sighed.

Draco stood up fully, stretching out the last of the exhaustion from his bones. They would sleep more soon, but a shower first, now that the worst of the night’s tiredness had faded. He stepped over to the coffee table and picked up the cup of tea. He sipped it, focusing on the perfect warmth and steepness that his charm had maintained while they slept.

He offered Harry the other cup which he shook his head at, pulling his knees up to his chest, still mourning whatever it was the wolf had found as prey. Draco snacked on one of the crackers, but his stomach still felt wrong too.

“I want a bath,” Harry said decisively.

“That seems wise,” Draco nodded, swallowing a large gulp of tea. “Do you,” he paused, suddenly nervous despite everything. “I could. Well, I could join you. If you wanted that. I know you need your space sometimes.”

“You can join me, but,” and Harry looked intent, “ _no_ more poetry.”

“Not even a little bit?” He reached for Harry’s hand to pull him to his feet. “I couldn’t say, for instance, _O rising moon! O Lady moon! Be you my lover’s sentinel_?”

“I mean it, Malfoy,” Harry rolled his eyes, taking Draco’s hand. But Draco’s little play had worked, and the sourness about Harry had faded in favor of a gentle smile.

He was unselfconscious in a way that Draco could never be, letting the thick blanket roll fully off of him as he stood up completely naked. Draco looked over his body, less so for any aesthetic appreciation (though there was always that) than for an assessment of injury. There were a few bruises, one particularly nasty purple mark below his right kneecap, and some thin, easily healed scratches at his ribs.

“Oh, Malfoy, is it now?” Draco teased, sliding his hand around Harry’s waist. Though he would never admit it, the stairs up to their loft bedroom could be difficult on days like these. They took each step one at a time, Harry leaning on Draco and the bannister.

“Only,” Harry huffed, trying to keep that ridiculous prideful tone to his voice, “when you’re,” he leaned heavily against the bannister, avoiding Draco’s gaze, “being posh.”

“ _You cannot choose but know my love,_ ” Draco said, raising an eyebrow. “As if my quoting poetry isn’t a turn on.” They kept their progress up the wide steps and Draco eyed Harry’s bruised leg, worrying if it could be worse than it looked. He was certainly favoring it, leaning on the bannister more than Draco.

“I’ll lock you out,” Harry grumbled when they reached the top step. The bathroom was just a straight path past their wide bed. It was as they had left it: one half meticulously made up and one half with the sheet half-twisted into the duvet. Draco had long since given up that particular battle. If he found it slightly endearing that Harry’s attempt at making the bed was more like piling blankets and pillows in a vaguely sleep-shaped manner, well, Harry didn’t have to know.

Draco moved ahead of Harry to push the door open and went over to the bath. They had spent months searching for apartments, arguing over flats and what was important and the right view and if exposed brick was passé or not. Draco had been adamant that they move into the Malfoy London property with its massive windows and rooms and rooms to spare. Harry had insisted on the awful gothic Black house with its morbid decor and the distinct scent of death in the carpets.

A new apartment had been a compromise, but searching for the right place had been almost worse than the myriad Black vs. Malfoy fights over curry and pizza and Thai and chips, night after night in alternating parlor rooms. They had visited nearly fifty flats that neither of them could agree on when they found this place.

This tub had been the deciding factor. There was of course the loft with its big windows, positioned for the morning sun to dance across their bed (the perfect angle to highlight the warm contours of Harry’s cheekbones), and the big kitchen with an extra burner (for nights when they both cooked together, which usually ended in argument or burned food either way) and the wide living room that could fit a pull-out sofa for the nights they had friends over.

But the tub was the selling point. It was set with jets and wide enough to fit both of them all long legs and elbows, with charmed taps set to the perfect temperature and heating vents that stopped the water from going cold. It was made with beautiful dark wood panelling on the outside and tiles along the top edges to match the counters. The light hanging above must have been handcrafted. Draco had spent more than one luxuriating evening soak staring at it, all stained glass yellows and a burning magical flame inside.

By unspoken agreement, they had walked out of the bathroom entirely decided on the flat. It didn’t have the rooftop garden that Draco had wanted, and the pub closest to it was sort of shit, or so Harry insisted, but perhaps that was for the best anyway. They had a key in hand within a week.

Draco set the taps to fill, testing the water with the back of his hand. He poured in the salts and lavender and peppermint, feeling just a touch like he was stirring up a potion. The scents, buoyed by the cloying steam, quickly filled the small room. Harry was behind him at the sink, scrubbing some of the worst dirt from under his fingernails.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, head and shoulders hunched over his work at the sink.

“What for?” Draco asked, sitting on the edge of the tub, bare feet against the cold tile floor.

Harry shrugged, rinsing his hands. He always used cold water, like that was what he deserved. Draco could see the goosebumps rising up along his forearms and he longed to press them away with warm touches. “Got a bit rude, back there,” Harry nodded out the door. “The wolf getting into something stupid isn’t your fault.”

“Oh,” Draco said, folding his hands together in his lap. He hadn’t thought of it in that way. “I ought to have been paying better attention. You were not wrong about that.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Harry grumbled, shaking the last bits of water off his hands. He stepped over to Draco and slid his (freezing) hands beneath the bottom of his thick jumper, sending a shiver up Draco’s spine. He grinned when Draco twisted closer to him to get away from the chill. “You are so good to me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Draco’s neck. “I shouldn’t take you for granted.”

“You shouldn’t,” Draco said airily, pushing Harry back a step. “And you shouldn’t put those icy hands anywhere near me. Get in.” He nodded to the tub with an imperious glare, daring Harry to deny him. Harry did as he was told, sliding first one foot and then the other into the bath, making a soft and pleased noise as the heat touched his skin. Draco allowed himself the briefest of glances as Harry stretched his legs wide across the tub, bubbles obscuring nothing.

“Are you coming?” Harry asked, tilting his head with _that_ expression.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Not when you’re still covered in a layer of dirt. Scrub up, set the tub to filter, and _then_ I’ll come in.”

Harry muttered something under his breath that Draco thought was for the best he didn’t hear. He grabbed the small glass cup from the sink and filled it from the taps. It was cool under his fingers, even more so for the steamy heat of the bathroom. He sipped it primly, sitting on the corner of the tub and watching as Harry gave himself a cursory and rough scrub. In the thick heat of the bathroom, his jumper felt too-warm, but he didn’t take it off, just rolled up the sleeves and watched Harry carefully.

“You could be a bit more gentle,” Draco drawled. “The soap will do its work, even without a bit of scouring.”

“I hate it,” Harry mumbled, continuing to rub at a spot of dirt on his arm like he could take the skin off with it. “I _hate_ it,” he said again, louder, looking up at Draco like Draco could fix it. Draco couldn’t fix it.

“I know,” Draco murmured. He pushed off the tub and refilled the cup, sliding it along the edge until it was near Harry’s shoulder. “Drink that and I’ll come in there.”

“Dirt and all?”

“Dirt and all,” Draco said, as though it were a great sacrifice. Harry picked up the glass and drank a big gulp too quickly, coughing, to Draco’s endless weariness. He rolled his eyes and Harry drank it more slowly with a placating expression.

Draco turned away, giving Harry his back as he reached down to undo the sweatpants and tug them down. Even after so many years of being with Harry, he still felt the burn of self-consciousness at getting undressed like this, so obviously exposed. It was worse with Harry lounging back in the tub, eyeing him like he wanted to drag Draco down into the water with him and never let him go. Harry could be so intense. Draco wasn’t quite sure he deserved all that looking.

He kicked the sweats aside and tugged off the jumper, folding it and setting it neatly on the counter by the sink. He flicked a hand at the glass light above the tub, setting the fire inside to a perfect balance of golden hues that danced across the room and bubbling, steamy surface of the water. Draco ran an anxious hand through his hair and looked over at Harry who was…

He was looking at Draco with the oddest expression, wide eyes and his lips parted like he was about to say something but had forgotten. His skin was already pink from the heat of the tub and his vigorous scrubbing, but there was a certain flush to his cheeks that could not be otherwise attributed. Draco swallowed hard, and looked away, wanting desperately to reach for a towel, to cover up or slide back into his jumper. He lifted his chin, though, putting his hands behind his back as though standing to attention, begging his pale skin not to flush and reveal his true feelings.

Harry reached for him, setting aside the empty glass and Draco went willingly, sliding into the tub. The water was almost scalding even in the warmth of the room and he hissed as it burned away the last chill of the tile from his skin.

Harry pulled him in, sliding Draco into the tub, half on top of him and half on the little built seat under the water. Draco went willingly, relishing in the feeling of their bodies moving together, wet warm skin on Harry’s. He breathed in the scent of peppermint and lavender rolling off the surface, rolling off the drops on Harry’s neck and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the heat and the salts soak into his tired bones.

Draco opened his blissful eyes to find Harry frowning, a sour and sad expression ruining the neat lines of his face. He raised a hand to touch Harry’s cheek, saw Harry’s eyes track his arm and knew immediately what the problem was.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Really, Harry,” he put his arm under the water as the waterproof charm would keep the bandages there clean, and touched Harry’s cheek with his other hand. Harry shut his eyes, grief written across his lips. “Harry,” Draco admonished, pressing his thumb into the awful little dimple at the corner of Harry’s lips.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said finally, after a long quiet. Draco slid his hand down to the back of Harry’s neck and tugged him forward so their foreheads could knock together. He breathed the steamy air for a moment, feeling the cool gust of Harry’s breath across his lips for a moment.

“I know that,” Draco murmured, “idiot. It’s not as if you meant to hurt me.”

Draco pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s frown, cutting off a reply. Draco pushed away, to the other side of the tub which felt a great distance in so large a space, but their knees still knocked together. He snagged the soap-soaked washcloth as he moved, smiling gently at Harry’s torn expression, half guilty and morose and half distracted.

It did not last long. After all, Draco was adept at modes of distracting Harry. He pulled Harry’s foot up in the water, bending his knee with a gentle press of fingers, and slid his fingernails gently down the back of his calf.

Harry’s head hit the back tile as Draco ran the washcloth over his ankle, sweeping it over the top of his foot and down. Draco massaged his hands along the arch of Harry’s foot as he went, scrubbing away the last memories of the woods and watching the dregs of dirt swirl away into the magical filter. Harry’s foot jolted in his palms when he pressed a nail to the underside of his heel and he grinned, repeating the motion.

“Asshole,” Harry grumbled, but he did not pull his foot away.

Draco kept at it. He drew Harry’s foot up out of the water, lifting it so that the base of his foot would press against Draco’s chest, half in and half out of the water. He soaped up the washcloth again and scrubbed it along the dark hair on Harry’s shin, over the little scar that trailed down his calf, white and gnarled where the wolf had gotten caught up in a fence one awful night. He scratched his fingers over Harry’s ankle, pressing his thumb into the spot right behind the ball of his heel where Harry always groaned -- and he did so now, eyes drifting perfectly shut.

Harry was so stupidly handsome it made Draco ache. His head was tilted back against the tile, every inch of him from his jaw to his broad shoulders dripping with water and steam. His skin was the perfect blush shade of brown, highlighted in the yellow firelight above. Draco wanted to sink into him, be flesh of his flesh, body of his body. He wanted to reach inside himself and find the things that Harry thought were beautiful and pour them back into Harry. He wanted to sit and stare and never stop.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of Harry’s ankle as a meagre recompense, thrilling at the soft noise Harry made as he did.

“How is your stomach?” Draco asked, as he scrubbed under Harry’s knee. Harry shrugged, which Draco knew meant that it was awful. He pressed a kiss to Harry’s shin in gentle apology and kept at the things he could do to make Harry feel better.

By the time Draco finished both legs, Harry had settled into a peaceful, unbothered state of calm, blissed out and flushed from the heat, eyes half-lidded. He moved forward, running his hands over Harry’s knees, rubbing the spot just above his right knee that still got sore when it rained.

“What are you thinking about?” Draco mused, as he slid forward in the water to straddle Harry’s lap. He brought the washcloth to his shoulders, relishing the feeling of Harry’s boundless strength beneath his fingertips, under the thin fabric of the washcloth.

Harry smiled, eyes still mostly closed. “I remember just a little bit from last night,” he murmured. “Was trying to,” he waved a lazy, steam-muddled hand, “put it all together.”

Draco hummed, rubbing soap through a small smudge of dirt on Harry’s right bicep. Harry flexed under his touch and laughed lightly under his breath at Draco’s tiny gasp. He gave him an admonishing glare as he whisked the last bit of dirt away and down to the filter.

“There’s just this one little bit I’ve got,” Harry mumbled. Draco ran soapy hands down over his neck, pulling him from the back of the tub to reach behind and card his fingers through the hair at the back of Harry’s neck. Harry moved bonelessly, leaning into him and filling Draco’s senses with his warmth. “Just the way your wings looked in the moonlight. All shiny and --” he cut himself off with a soft noise of appreciation at Draco’s touch.

“Don’t stop there,” Draco admonished. “Teasing at my vanity.”

“Beautiful, I was going to say,” Harry murmured, lips even closer to Draco’s ear in this position. “Really beautiful.”

“Sap.”

“So what if I am?” Harry laughed, breath hot on Draco’s neck. He couldn’t help but lean into the feeling. “You like it.”

Draco rolled his eyes, trying to bite back the smile that threatened to break, and scooped water so that it poured over Harry’s messy hair and over his shoulders. Harry spluttered, reeling back with a betrayed expression. “Maybe I do,” Draco teased. “Shut your eyes,” he warned, and poured more water, scrubbing carefully at a bit of dirt on Harry’s cheek.

Harry emerged from the soak looking rather like a displeased wet dog and Draco couldn’t help but laugh, pressing a hand to his mouth to try to stop the sound. Harry glared at him.

“I hate you,” Harry grumbled, and Draco pushed him under the water. He came back up even more soaked than before, scattering water onto the floor and onto Draco as he did so.

“You don’t,” Draco said. He leaned forward, shampoo on his fingers, and dug his hands into Harry’s hair, tugging at the soft curls with a firm and careful grip, massaging his scalp and digging into that spot right at the base of his head that always made Harry arch into him, until Harry was back to that blissful expression.

“This isn’t fair,” Harry groaned, moving his head with the press of Draco’s hands as he worked the lather through, till every bit of Harry’s hair was wet with it. “You have an _advantage_.”

“And I’m using it.”

“Slytherin bastard,” Harry grumbled, though he made no move to protest as Draco pulled him forward to sink his soaped hair in the water.

“But you love me,” Draco laughed, and it was a full laugh, right from the chest as though it were bursting from him. He rinsed the last of the soap from Harry’s hair and pulled him back up, grumbling as Harry shook water everywhere once again.

Harry leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Draco’s cheek, water dripping across his skin warm and close. This close, he still smelled like the warmth of the woods, but now more like fresh leaves and rainwater, none of the dirt and blood and sweat of the night before. Harry always kissed him carefully, like he was still trying to get it exactly right. Like he was re-learning every centimetre of Draco’s skin every time again and again for the first time. Draco was still exhausted and sore and ready to curl into their wide bed and sleep in Harry’s arms until another day, but even this tiny kiss against his cheek felt like paradise.

“Yeah,” Harry whispered against Draco’s chin, as he reached to pluck a single crow feather from Draco’s mussed and damp hair. He set it on the side of the bathtub, where it curled, iridescent, black, and shiny, a simple reminder of their commitment to each other renewed monthly under the moon’s watchful gaze. “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Find me on tumblr at [the-starryknight](https://the-starryknight.tumblr.com/ask) as I'm always up for a chat.
> 
> \---
> 
>  **Detailed injury warnings:**  
>  While transformed as a wolf, Harry (off screen) attacks and eats some sort of prey. Though this is not shown, the aftermath (blood mentioned) is on-screen. This is mentioned again later, as Harry is ill from it when he is human again.
> 
> Harry-as-the-wolf also is accidentally frightened, and tries to attack Animagus-Draco. He injures Draco's wing, but Draco gets away safely. Following both of their transformations back to human forms, Draco treats the scratches on his arm with dittany and bandages the wound. There is mention of blood here. 
> 
> Elsewhere in the fic there are brief mentions of bruises, scars, a bit of blood, and very minor scratches.
> 
> \--
> 
> The poem Draco quotes is _Endymion_ by Oscar Wilde.


End file.
